In the depths of the earth, where the scent of dampness mixed with ash, Ken sat inside a narrow corridor of the city's underground drains. The darkness was appearing, but the orange glow of the fire he had lit on the ground pierced through it, revealing the corroded metal walls and the vapor rising from cracked pipes.
Beside him, the child was lying on a torn piece of cloth, and breathing slowly, his chest was rising and falling with visible exhaustion. His wounds were wrapped with strips of white fabric torn from Ken's own shirt. Now Ken wore only an open black jacket, exposing his chest and tense muscles that gleamed faintly with sweat under the firelight.
He sat silently for a few seconds, staring into the small fire, as if he's thinking of a thousand things. Then he reached into his side pocket and took out a small oval device, about the size of his palm, its color is dark gray with faint green light lines along its edges.
He pressed the icon at its center. A soft pulse sound echoed, and suddenly, a large holographic screen projected against the wall, showing a flickering image of a live broadcast.
"Earthquakes continue across the continent of Valoria. The transparent celestial wall that once separated the continent from the outside world is no longer stable, and the violet rift remains visible to this moment… with hundreds of thousands of casualties…"
The anchor's voice was tense and broken, fading at times due to signal loss. Ken showed no reaction. He only watched the screen with sharp focus while his mind analyzed every word.
'It's more stable here… less vibration… If the tremors have stopped in this area, then the pressure center must have shifted north.'
He lifted his head slightly toward the dripping ceiling, then looked back at the sleeping child beside him. He exhaled quietly and murmured in a faint voice barely audible over the hum of the pipes:
"At least… we're alive."
The images on the wall began to shift rapidly. The holographic screen cycled through fast news footage from different channels. Overlapping voices, clashing logos, and a storm of anxious tones.
"The Valorian authorities are calling the disaster The Great Rift…"
"Experts confirm that the rift in the sky was not a natural phenomenon, but an energy of unknown origin…"
"The island of Orakano has been devastated by nearly 80%. Hundreds reported missing and thousands of bodies washed ashore…"
"The Lower States have declared a state of emergency as rescue teams continue operations amid ongoing aftershocks…"
The feed kept flashing images of ruin… drowned cities, crumbling mountains, smoked clouds reaching the sky. Then another channel's voice over was calmer, but edged with precision:
"As for the Empire of Zitara, the damage was relatively limited due to its mountainous terrain. However, witnesses reported a strange flash illuminating the capital for several seconds on the second day of the disaster. It is believed to be linked to the activity of a rare Vakin ability."
At that moment, the image began to distort. The colors faded until the screen turned white. Suddenly, that white light became pale sunlight, reflecting across a devastated city. Zitara no longer looked like itself. The beautiful Japanese-style houses were now burned ruins, bridges had collapsed, and water dripped from cracks left by the quakes.
Amid this desolation, Akio walked slowly along a broken dirt road. His golden eyes were dim with exhaustion, his clothes torn and dusted with ash. Two days had passed since the event, and he had barely slept for more than a few scattered minutes.
He held a small bag slung over his back. His eyes searched through the rubble, among the faces of the weary survivors and the remains of shattered homes. None of his family had survived except Murasaki, who followed him silently, her pink hair dulled with dust, her eyes were empty.
Akio stopped walking. He stared into the horizon and whispered as if speaking to himself:
"Father… are you still alive?"
He lifted his gaze toward the gray sky, where the violet rift still hung faintly but unmistakably. In that instant, everything around him seemed to freeze. People moved, doctors shouted, soldiers carried the wounded. But time had stopped for Akio.
Through the haze of dust and smoke, he saw a metal hospital bed being pushed slowly through the crowd, draped in a white sheet stained red at the edges. When part of the sheet slipped, a lock of pink hair fell out.
His eyes widened. His breathing quickened. Doubt turned to dreadful certainty. He screamed without thinking and ran with every ounce of strength left in him, while Murasaki was shouting his name from behind as she tried to catch up.
"Motheeeeeeeeeeer!!!"
His voice tore through the air, echoing between the scorched walls as if the world itself was screaming with him. He grabbed the bed before they could wheel it into the cremation chamber, then ripped off the cover and saw her.
The face that had once smiled at him every morning was now cold and pale, her eyes closed in a harsh peace that didn't suit her.
He collapsed to the ground, his hand trembling as it clutched her lifeless fingers. They tears streamed endlessly down his face, mixing with the ash on his skin.
"Mom… Mom, wake up… please."
Murasaki knelt beside him, trying to speak, but her voice came out broken and hoarse from crying. Both of them were clinging to denial, holding on to something that no longer existed. Akio wept as he never had before. He cried in a loud voice, with raw honesty, without trying to be strong… because everything inside him burst out all at once.
In his mind, her images came one after another… her laughter, her voice calling his name, her hand stroking his hair whenever he made a mistake. She had loved him with a rare sincerity, even though he wasn't her real son. She called him "my son" in a voice that made everyone believe he truly was.
And now… that voice would never be heard again. He froze in his place, his eyes were still staring at her, while the flames in the cremation chamber ignited behind the glass. At that moment, Akio felt that something was fading inside him, as if the light that had shone in his heart since childhood had quietly gone out, leaving behind only a cold emptiness.
Three months had passed since that disaster that changed everything. The sky had gradually regained its color, but people's hearts hadn't regained peace yet. The earthquakes had stopped, the ruins were cleared, and in a small alley of the capital city, Akio and Murasaki rebuilt their old home with the help of their father Vanco, whom they finally found after weeks of searching.
In the courtyard, Akio stood in the center, gripping two wooden swords. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his clothes clinging to his small body, but his golden eyes gleamed with fierce determination.
He raised the first sword in a straight line forward, then spun lightly and struck with the second in the opposite direction. His movements weren't perfect, there was still the tremor of a teenager whose body hadn't fully matured, but they carried unwavering resolve. Strike after strike followed… each movement an attempt to escape the pain, and every breath a vow to keep going.
Murasaki watched from afar, sitting on the wooden steps, seeing his small frame sway in the dim light, as if grief itself had become his teacher. Akio was cutting through the air with a powerful swing, then stopped to catch his breath. He muttered softly, his eyes fixed on the ground:
"I won't cry anymore… Mother wouldn't have wanted that."
He lifted his head toward the sky, the sunset was reflecting in his eyes like the lightning he was born with.
"I'll become stronger… I'll fulfill my goal… I'll be the next Shogun of this continent! That's my promise to her."
He tightened his grip on both swords again and swung with such force that the dust around him scattered into the air.
Meanwhile, on the island of Orakano, the scene looked like a vast graveyard. The wrecked houses had turned into piles of wood and iron, and the old streets once filled with life had become paths of mud and ash. Amid that devastation, one house still stood. its walls were firm, its roof intact, built sturdily amid the chaos of shanties.
From its door, Ken stepped out slowly, his face devoid of expression. He wore a plain white cap, a short-sleeved white shirt, and dark trouser. A half-burned cigarette hung between his lips, swaying with his breath. On his back, his sword was strapped to a leather belt, shifting slightly with each step he took.
He stopped at the doorway for a moment and exhaled a long stream of smoke. Then he began to walk through the alleys, the smoke trailing behind him in a thin line through the cold air.
After several minutes of wandering, he reached the remains of a small market with a collapsed stalls and fallen signs. But one wall was still stood, covered with dozens of torn posters and faded papers.
He stopped before it, pulled the cigarette from his mouth, and rested his hand on the wall. Some of the papers were about missing or wanted people, others of aid and relief. But only one caught his eyes… a relatively clean sheet with bold writing at the top:
"The Annual Selection of Young Warriors — 87th Cycle."
Below the title, there was a smaller text line:
"The Selection will take place in two weeks, in the middle of Orakano Island. Open to all above the age of thirteen. The winners will join the ranks of elite fighters under the supervision of the Arkan Rebellion."
Ken read silently. Then he raised an eyebrow, as if something in the announcement had caught his interest. He returned the cigarette to his mouth and exhaled slowly, his eyes fixed on the fog-covered horizon.
He stared at the paper for a long moment. Something in those words made him stop breathing for an instant. The word "warriors"… it carved into him deeply. His left hand tensed, his joints cracking softly.
The wind blew and began to shake the other posters, but the one before him stayed… until he suddenly gripped it with all his strength. The sound of the paper tearing under his fingers was like a small explosion. He crumpled it slowly, his gray eyes burning sharper, and a faint flame flickered along his fingertips.
"The Selection, huh… same play every year."
He dropped the crumpled paper to the ground and crushed it beneath his foot. But the anger inside him didn't fade… it burned hotter. The memories surged at once: the burning city, the screams of children, the red sky filled with ash. And one voice that rose above it all… a single name that never stopped haunting him.
He raised his head towards the horizon, his eyes blazing now with real fire. He whispered with a sharp tome as a blade:
"Cirrus…"
His jaw tightened, his head bowed slightly, and he walked away from the wall. His steps were slower, heavier, but full of purpose. For the first time in years, Ken wasn't walking away from his past… he was walking toward his vengeance.